wash

I first practiced devastation when I was six, it was a devastation determined by a crushing guilt. I would run a bath and sit in the pink bathroom waiting for the tub to fill, and the roar of the rushing water would ring my ears like two speakers switching on back and forth. I thought I was going deaf, I was deaf, I thought I could hear so well that the sound was damaging me. And during these moments my heart would rise up to deafen and I would feel the anxiety building and I would become weak and fall into a rush of panic, which I interpreted as guilt. Capital Guilt. I would try to calm down, sit on the edge of the tub, and would eventually decide that I'd have to stop the water from filling the tub so much. It was all I could stand. Before I learned that I had to stop the water, that I had to sit in a tub that would barely cover my legs, I'd run out of the bathroom to find my parents to admit something to them. I'd tell them only one thing that I'd done wrong. It usually had to do with saying the word asshole or pretending to fuck one of my friends. They'd shake their heads, confused, trying to stop my sob panic, assuring me that what I'd done wasn't so bad, really. I've never understood why I had such a debilitating guilt complex, I was only ever told to treat people well & to not lie to my parents. It was because I had secrets, and that to me meant I was a liar. Keeping a secret isn't telling a lie. Keeping is holding, knowing, treasuring, being inside of a self. Telling is exposing, pushing, forcing, demanding, active & obtrusive. But keeping can also be taking, stealing, and telling can be truthful & necessary & helpful. I'd like to hold & give over & over forever, but the feeling still shakes me away sometimes. I quit admitting, though. I haven't enough faith in that.

dear old ones

? I think I missed it. And you have, & we know it. I know where you are, too. Do you know about me? never alone? I can see us seeing us seeing me, watching out for you. But for where? is it the sound of a drink hitting your glass? is it about the truths we told, and the one question I shouldn't ask. but will pretend to have not.

How many noses at which I have wondered. And eyes, your celebritorial eyes. Like all the famous men, with the old creases surrounding. And another, yours, with the darkblack lashes. And yours, changing always hazel blue. But the noses. The ones I remember for years & years. The length of one, thin and so sharp I think my soft cheek might cut open on it. &  I can't crave this sight. The possibility of a slice made by one is devastating enough. I'm of a devastation persuasion & have had all I could want of you.

The indifference of a cheek turned, the casual phrases carried through the radio, translated text... the questioning high-pitch of an uncertain voice. The questions which aren't questions. Honesty displaced; too nervous to make attempts for it. The solo opportunity. The failed friend. The mediocre tries, the givens up. My own wishes at communicating bodiless. The mouth & mind, and the staring across a table. The regrettable disappointment inevitable, caught it cold this time.